


From the Faraway Shores of Tomorrow

by Jean_grantaire



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Season 2, hurt/comfort but the only hurt is season 2, soft soft soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jean_grantaire/pseuds/Jean_grantaire
Summary: Post-season 2. Fixing their relationship is not easy, and it is not quick, but they're trying.





	From the Faraway Shores of Tomorrow

_Trapped. Motionless, powerless, his world burned down to the furious snarl of Monsieur’s expression, the white-hot blaze of words raining down on him like shrapnel from an explosion. Pathetic. Coward. Unloved. None bit into him as deeply as the centre of the inferno: the emptiness behind the hatred burning in his lover’s eyes, windows to a soul that used to bear such warmth for him. That no longer spared him an inch of space, a moment of attention. A soul that no longer cared._

Darkness. Quiet. He startled awake to all of the familiar indicators of his own room, wrapped in the star-studded blanket of a peaceful night. Still the nightmare was reluctant to release him from its clutches: he felt pinned to his sheets, so literally that he could feel the hands on his shoulders; above him, as his eyes adapted to the moonlight seeping through the curtains and the stars twinkling into the room between the gaps in the fabric, the form of Monsieur took shape.

Reality hit him with all the unyielding brute force of a solid wall (or, on one regrettably memorable occasion, the marble steps of one of Versailles’ grand, sweeping staircases). Startling violently, the Chevalier scrambled to escape the figure looming over him, his limbs tangling in the sheets that clung to his sweat-soaked skin, and then the floor rushed up to meet him.

His landing was accompanied by a graceless thump, and for several long seconds he lay on the floor, the rest of the world settling into place around him piece by piece with all the gentle surety of autumn leaves or fresh snowfall over footprints. Philippe was back from the war. Philippe was in his bed. Thomas was dead, and his wife wasn’t trying to steal him. The Chevalier rolled over.

The light from the clear night’s sky turned Philippe’s pale skin silvery, his eyes into dark pools far gentler than the eyes that haunted the Chevalier’s dreams. There was concern there, concern drawn from a deep well of affection. Concern drawn from love.

Even sat up at the edge of the bed, the angle from the floor kept most of Philippe’s body out of sight (not that it was difficult for the Chevalier to imagine – he knew that body as well as he knew his own, down to the precise arch of his foot, the taste of every dip in his spine, the exact pressure that made him ticklish just below his ribs). It could not, however, hide the clear invitation that was the lift of the corner of the covers, bunched in a silver-bathed hand.

The fragility of the moment stretched it out, time coming to a standstill for that handful of seconds as the fragility of the precious love between them weighed heavily on the room, unspoken yet still sneaking into all of the gaps and spaces between them as they found a new footing with one another.

Sliding back beneath the covers said more than any words could have done. _I’m trying to reach you,_ said the inviting space between the sheets. _I’m here,_ replied the whisper of fabric against flesh as he climbed into it.

Here at least they still slotted together as two pieces of a puzzle, the Chevalier’s head fitted to Philippe’s chest, over his heart, one leg draped across Philippe’s hips whilst the other was caught and tangled between two rivals lower between the sheets. He twitched slightly at the first brush of Philippe’s hand, but settled into the arm that followed to wind around him.

The kiss to his hair reached through him, wrapped around the fractured pieces of his heart, secreted away in the small, soft part of himself that he would scarcely admit existed, and wound them tighter together, a tiny step closer to forming a whole. Almost unthinkingly the Chevalier kissed the chest below him in turn.

Already his eyes were growing heavy, the dark horrors of his nightmare chased away by the warm body against his, the protective arm with which it held him close and blocked out the rest of the night, the steady duet of Philippe’s breaths and heartbeat. _Home_ poured in through all of his senses, soothing and warming him through every inch of his body from the inside out. The Chevalier closed his eyes, and he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: When Will Alastair Write Something That Doesn't Involve A Bed (never)  
> Find me @almostasunking on tumblr!


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